


If there’s any love in me, don’t let it show

by waferkya



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Lemon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He walks in like a storm would, José has barely opened the door and Zlatan is already pushing him out of the way, stomping loudly into the room to throw himself onto the beautiful, puffy couch which is the main reason why this hotel was chosen to host the team. José blinks once, twice, closes the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If there’s any love in me, don’t let it show

**Author's Note:**

> — Set in the night before Zlatan left Inter Milan to go to Barcelona, almost two years ago. The team was in America at the time, for pre-season showing off.  
> — I borrowed the title from “Shape of my heart”, a song by Noah & The Whale. Also, the R-rated part in this fic is kind of mild, sorry. All my attempts to write them in a good PWP failed miserably D:  
> — Written for [fslashexchange](http://fslashexchange.livejournal.com), turned out to be for [el_defe](http://el_defe.livejouranl.com) (I HAD NO IDEA) (LOL).

He walks in like a storm would, José has barely opened the door and Zlatan is already pushing him out of the way, stomping loudly into the room to throw himself onto the beautiful, puffy couch which is the main reason why this hotel was chosen to host the team. José blinks once, twice, closes the door.

“Hi,” he says, slightly at a loss for words.

“Fuck you,” Zlatan mutters, crossing his feet on the crystal coffee table right in front of the couch, oh, that’s very nice of him. José stares, and after a few moments Zlatan huffs, gets up, almost manages to knock one extremely expensive looking vase off the table in the process. He starts moving in circles around the room like a caged animal, then, and any sane person in the world would be worried by now, terrified, even, having this huge, nervous Swede pacing angrily with a magnificient pout on his face and a strange, strange look in his eyes, but not José. He’s – may God have mercy of whatever is left of his soul, – _amused._

“I shouldn’t be here,” Zlatan says, snapping his head up to look at him, straight into his eyes.

“You shouldn’t,” José agrees, because there’s no point in hiding the truth, really, especially not when Zlatan is around. He holds his mysteriously angry gaze, and then smiles a little. “So, why are you here?”

Zlatan huffs again, annoyed, and walks to him. He’s tall, he’s so fucking huge, and José looks up so abruptly it sends a sharp spark of pain all the way down his neck, to his spine. Zlatan grins, now, as if he could feel José’s bones shivering.

“You’re getting old,” he whispers, his hands finding their place so very low on José’s hips, and there’s a rough kind of affection in his voice, in his touch. José finds himself oddly pleased, because maybe, just maybe, he really is growing old, and therefore he’s allowed to feel.

“Don’t worry, I have no interest in dying,” he says, shrugging a little, pressing his palms to the small of Zlatan’s back, watching his eyes narrow a bit and get dark, dense. Fuck, it feels good. “Not now that you’re leaving, anyway.”

“What, because you wanna be here when I come back?” Zlatan laughs, and then he kisses him, mockery and disbelief heavy and bitter on his lips. He slowly licks his way into José’s mouth, cupping his face with a hand, stroking a thumb across his bottom lip. José presses himself up and forward in return, flushed against his chest, and smiles into the kiss when he feels Zlatan’s cock stirring to life against his thigh. They part a moment too late, vision blurred out from the lack of oxygen, tiny black dots eating away the corners of each other’s face. Zlatan closes his eyes again, José could swear he saw some sort of sadness right there, and smiles a little. “You won’t wait for me, José.”

“Of course not,” he agrees, because he hates waiting, Zlatan knows that as much as anyone else does, and truth is truth and it’s tiring and useless to go and try to pretend it’s not.

“Then what? What is it that you wanna do?” Zlatan asks, and he looks at him and nuzzles the tip of the self-governing county of his nose to José’s cheek. José pinches his hip playfully, that’s unusual, and not entirely unpleasant. Maybe Zlatan is growing old, too.

“I’ll stay, we’ll mourn for you for a day and a half but after that, I’m sorry, we’ll be too busy winning everything we can,” he says, and Zlatan gives him a wry smile, kisses the words off his proud, arrogant mouth. “The team will move on, the fans will move on. You’ll be happy, or miserable as fuck, but they won’t care anymore, on this side of the Alps.”

Zlatan doesn’t dare to ask, _will you really move on? Will you care?_ , but José gives him his answer anyway because, well, it’s true, and it’s written all over his face anyway. Maybe Zlatan can’t see it but it’s there, somewhere, José knows for sure.

“And then I’ll come for you,” he says, and Zlatan’s lips freeze on his neck. He looks up, almost uncertain, and it’s funny, really, so out of character for him that José almost laughs. It lasts only a second, though, because suddenly Zlatan is back to his stubborn, rock-solid fierceness.

“Why don’t you come now?” He kisses him again, open mouthed and wet and José doesn’t want to think that early tomorrow morning Zlatan will be on a plane taking him to Barcelona, away from him, to Pep. “Why don’t you come _with_ me? You’d have Messi, and a bunch of other fuckers to win la Liga with.” He grins, his lips barely a breath away from José’s. He’s a smug bastard and he knows exactly what’s the right thing to say to make all of José’s walls crumble down in less than a heartbeat. “You’ll have me, José.”

José sighs, he’s really tempted to follow, he’s been tempted to follow him anywhere since the very first moment Zlatan’s fucking tummyache showed up. Truth is, he knows he’s _bound_ to follow him anywhere, just because he has this way of making his whole body _hurt_ with happiness and pleasure and everything, just by looking at him. José sighs again, helpless, and he sees victory already dancing in Zlatan’s eyes, but it’s always been there anyway.

“I won’t,” he says, his voice heavier than he’d wanted it to be, that’s the price of straight forward ground-shaking honesty. Zlatan closes the already non-existent distance between them. “I owe this club, we both owe them so much. Maybe you don’t care, but I do.”

 _I care, too,_ Zlatan wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut and pressed to the warm skin of José’s jaw because, well, he’s not this desperate to try and win his approval. Besides, there’s no reason to spill words when decisions’ve been taken already in the opposite direction, no matter how hard every decision was, and how true the words would be.

“You _really_ are growing old and cheesy and sentimental,” he mocks, instead, and José reaches out for the back of his neck, pushes him down to meet his mouth in a hard, hungry kiss that leaves them both breathless and grinning.

“Not too old for you, I hope,” José says, as he closes his fingers around the zipper of Zlatan’s jeans.

“Not too old,” he nods, leaning forward to kiss him again, unbuttoning his shirt with just so much of a hurry. There’s a thought nibbling at the back of Zlatan’s head, that this is their last night as coach and player, their last, their last, but José brushes it away with a swift caress to Zlatan’s hardening cock, making him lift his arms to take off his t-shirt. “Never too old,” Zlatan promises, so softly he’s not even sure he actually said it, but then José stops moving his hands across his back, for a second he just stops.

He gives him a suspicious look and it makes Zlatan smile, it makes him honestly smile.

“What?” he says, and José suddenly remembers words don’t really mean anything to Zlatan, as long as there are piles and piles of facts that state otherwise. He feels a bitter, screaming anger fill his chest, but Zlatan kisses him then and it’s almost tender. “I’ll prove that to you.”

José is even more doubtful now, and maybe a little bit tired and he just really wants to push Zlatan on a bed and kiss him everywhere, dip his tongue into the bitter taste of his skin until the sun comes up, he really needs that. The bastard must’ve read it in his eyes, because he gives him a lopsided smile and leads him to the couch, pushes him down and straddles his lap, all huge dark eyes of green shattering to gold and that ravenous grin he should really, really stop flashing around because, God, it’s, well, kind of difficult to resist, that’s it.

“The bed ’s too comfortable for Your Gypsy Grace?” José manages to ask, his hands already lost up and down the sharp sides of Zlatan’s torso, his sticking-out hipbones, his back, always his back, lean and strong and smooth.

“Not close enough,” Zlatan says, grinning like the huge, arrogant fool he is, and he locks his lips to José’s neck once more, trying to finally get rid of his shirt.

 _It’s closer than Barcelona,_ they both think, and neither of them says it, because it’s true, but maybe too much.


End file.
